


The Wish

by palominopup



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 14:19:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17685086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palominopup/pseuds/palominopup
Summary: An old tea pot turns Castiel's world upside down, in a really good way.





	The Wish

**Author's Note:**

> For the members of my FB page, loving known as Fran's fiends. I love you guys.
> 
> And for Julia, thanks for answering my question and for the drink in NOLA. Hope to see you soon.

 

 

Royal Street was eerily quiet and a thick fog seemed to shroud the old city. Castiel walked alone, New Orleans wasn’t quite awake this early in the morning, his shoes making a gentle scuffle on the sidewalk. He’d wanted to get a start on unpacking his latest finds before he had to open his shop. Anticipation thrummed through his veins. The crate from his buying trip to Scotland had arrived yesterday.

A burst of pride lit his face when he stopped at his store. Novak’s Antique Emporium was embossed in regal gold lettering on the leaded glass door. The two display windows were unilluminated and he couldn’t wait to turn on the beautiful oil lamps he’d found in a farmhouse in Iowa.

Once inside, he relocked the door, but didn’t turn on the main lights. He wove through the Chippendale highboy, the Gothic Revival church pew, and the wrought iron gates from a boys’ school in Dublin. In the back of the shop, he walked around the counter where the Vintage National cash register sat next to a modern computer terminal. He pushed through the heavy curtain and entered his storage room. This was where he unpacked, sorted, and cleaned his stock before putting it into the showroom. This was his haven.

The crate was where the deliverymen left it by the back bay door. He moved to his workbench and hefted the crowbar. He was almost giddy. His family and friends would argue that Castiel didn’t ‘do’ giddy, but they never saw him like this. It was like his birthday and Christmas rolled into one, if his birthdays and Christmases would have been memorable.

The trip to Edinburgh and the surrounding towns had proven lucrative. Inside this crate was a stunning tea service, sterling silver and all the pieces were there. He’d also found several items of costume jewelry dating back to the seventeenth century and various other small treasures. The screech of the nails leaving the wood gave him goosebumps, but they were forgotten when he looked down into the packing material. The shipping company had done a wonderful job of protecting his investment.

The small pouch with the jewelry was set aside for later. It was the tea service he wanted to get his hands on. Pulling on a pair of gloves, he gently picked up the sugar dish and set it aside. The creamer came out next, and then the urn. Even through the cotton material, the piece was warm to the touch. Strange. He placed it on his work table and took out the heavy tray. The engraving was crisp and easy to see. The MacLeod crest was clear and Castiel ran his fingertip over it. Shaking himself, he finished unloading the crate and quickly broke it down so it could be put on the street for trash day.

He glanced at the J.H. Miller grandfather clock and sighed. He had an appointment before he opened for the day and only had two hours to prepare. He looked longingly at the tea service. Even tarnished and dusty, it was perfect. Making a decision, he sat down at his work table and picked up the creamer. It took almost thirty minutes and lots of elbow grease to get it clean. Another check of the time and he gleefully picked up the tea urn. He’d just do the lid and stop, he promised himself.

Castiel pinched the knob of the lid, a bird in flight, and lifted. The entire urn came off the table. “Damn it.” It was stuck. He grasped the body of the urn and tugged at the lid. Again, nothing. He squinted and looked closer. Something sticky was gummed up around the seal. Frowning, he set it down and reached for the mason jar filled with his own recipe for removing gunk. Baking soda, coconut oil, and a couple of drops of orange essential oil mixed together made a safe adhesive remover. He took the urn over to laundry sink he’d installed for washing up and tilted it. He poured a bit of the liquid over the rim and let it sit for a moment. Then he tugged again. It gave a little and he was encouraged. He nestled the urn under his arm for leverage and using his thumb and other hand, pulled hard. The lid popped out with a loud gasp and a whiff of sweet perfume clouded around him. He coughed. It was like sitting in the pew behind an elderly Southern woman on Easter Sunday.

His eyes stung and the urn was hot to the touch. He dropped it into the sink in shock and fumbled for the paper towels.

“Where am I?” A woman’s voice came from behind him and he jumped, almost losing his balance.

“How did you get in here?” She was small in stature, with long, wavy red hair. She was wearing a blue velvet gown. Her hands were on her hips.

“You freed me, you dolt,” she said, her Scottish lilt heavy with sarcasm.

Castiel wiped his eyes again and blinked. “I don’t... I’m sorry, but you are not allowed back here.” Surely Meg didn’t come in early and let a customer back to his domain. “Meg,” he called out.

“Rowena.” She rolled her eyes and then stared at her fingernails in boredom.

“Meg,” Castiel yelled.

“Ro-wen-a. My God, man, it’s not that difficult.” She eyed his storage room with distaste. “This is a hovel.” She flicked an imaginary bit of lint off her dress. “Would you have spot of tea?”

“Ma’am, you will have to leave. I insist, or I’ll have to call the police.” He gingerly made his way around her and pulled back the curtain. The showroom was still dark and there was no sign of Meg. The various clocks began to toll the hour. His appointment would be here in fifteen minutes and he had a strange woman to get rid of.

“Don’t get your undergarments in a twist. You freed me, so I owe you one wee wish, and then I’ll be on my way.” She picked the urn out of the sink and tucked it under her arm.

“Put that down,” Castiel ordered. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and prepared to dial.

“No, it’s mine.”

“No, it’s not. I have the bill of sale. It’s mine.”

“Bill of sale? From who? If Fergus...” She stomped her foot. “That ingrate... that insufferable little doaber.”

“Fergus? No, the sale was handled by a solicitor.” Castiel felt like he was in an episode of the Twilight Zone. “Ma’am, please, I have an appointment and I need you to leave.”

She peered up at him, her eyes narrowing. “You’ve never heard of me then? Rowena Macleod. I’m well known in the village.”

“You’re... your last name is Macleod?” What were the odds? Unfathomable. “Are you from Edinburgh?”

“Where is this place?” She asked suspiciously.

“New Orleans,” Castiel answered and then he heard loud knocking. Shit, it was his new client.

“New Orleans?” It sounded strange in the Scottish accent mixed with confusion.

“Yes, now, I really must...” He touched her arm to steer her out, but the moment his hand met her skin, he was thrown backward, landing on his ass. “What...”

“Deary, it’s best not to touch a witch.”

“Witch?” Castiel lived in New Orleans, where voodoo was ‘normal’ and people claiming to be vampires walked the streets. He knew Wiccans.

“Aye, are you deaf as well as an imbecile?” The banging from the front grew louder.

“Don’t move,” he commanded and hastily walked toward the front. His hands were shaking. It was crazy. She couldn’t be a witch. It... wasn’t real. _Couldn’t be real_.

Two men stood at the door and he unlocked the deadbolt. _The deadbolt was still in place_. How did she get in? He’d been standing by the back door, she didn’t come in that way. “Good morning, sorry to keep you waiting. I was in the back room,” Castiel said in a rush. “Mr. Winchester?” He looked from one to the other. Both were very attractive.

“I’m Sam Winchester. This is my brother, Dean.” Castiel shook his extended hand.

“Castiel Novak, it’s nice to finally put a face to the voice, Mr. Winchester.

“Mr. Winchester was our father, you can call him Sam.” Castiel extended his hand to the other man.

“I’m just along for the ride,” he said with a shrug and offered his hand as well. Castiel’s mind went south. The man’s eyes were... were... was there a word better than beautiful? Castiel realized he was still holding onto the man’s hand and he released it quickly. Castiel saw the Adonis’ lips twitch and his face flooded with heat. What would it be like to be with a man like that? Strong, handsome... but he’d have to be honest, with a sense of humor... and smart. If miracles could happen... he wished.

“Right... Well, you’re here to see the First Edition of Black’s Dictionary of Law.”

“Yeah,” the taller one, Sam, said, his hands coming together in his eagerness. “I’ve been looking online, but I really wanted to see it before I spent that kind of money.”

“I understand,” Castiel said, his mind on the sale now, the witch business pushed aside. “I’ve kept it in a case and have only handled it with gloves.”

“Awesome, a book you can’t touch,” Dean, his name was Dean, said with a roll of his eyes.

Sam ignored his brother. “If it is in the condition you said, I will gladly pay the asking price.”

“Well, well, hello there. Are all the men in this New Orleans as pretty as you three?” Castiel closed his eyes. The scent of her perfume informed him that she was right beside him.

He forced a smile and opened his eyes. “Ma’am, I told you to stay in the back.” The two men were eying her. One with amusement, one with speculation.

“Don’t be a bore, introduce me to your pretty friends.”

“I’m not a bore... please, just...”

“Hello, my name is Rowena.” She held out her hand like she was expecting them to kiss it. Sam, the taller one, shook it awkwardly.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Sam and this is my brother, Dean.” Dean’s eyes drifted down to her cleavage and Castiel felt a rush of jealousy. Rowena spun around and eyed him sharply.

“This one?” All three men looked at her in confusion. Castiel’s mind was racing. What had she said? A wee wish? He hadn’t... no... no... “Deary, in my day men that wanted to dally with other men were...”

“Rowena, please,” Castiel met her eyes and hoped she could read his mind. _I’m begging you_.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have something to see to in the back room.” To Castiel, she regally nodded and disappeared behind the curtain.

“I’m sorry... terribly sorry, she’s a... client. Just an eccentric client. Collects tea pots. Scottish tea pots.” He was rambling. “Your book... It’s right here.” Castiel opened the wooden cabinet where he kept the rare books. He slid out an archival box and took it to the Queen Anne dining room set. Gesturing for them to sit, he set it down. “If you’ll wait just a moment, I’ll get some gloves.

He rushed to the counter and reached into the small bin. He pulled out two sets, safety pinned in pairs. He plucked another one out because he’d left his on the work table. He had no desire to see Rowena until the Winchesters left... and not even then. _A witch_. He moaned softly.

Sam pulled on his gloves and Dean waved his away. “Dude, I don’t need to touch it. I prefer paperbacks.”

Castiel lifted the tome out of the box and placed it in front of Sam. He smiled as he watched the man. His touch was respectful and his eyes were filled with wonder.

“You’ll note that there are some notations in the margins and have been cited as being from Professor Joel Handler at Harvard during his tenure as a professor during the early nineteen hundreds.”

Sam made a mewling sound and Dean laughed. “I think you just made Sammy here cream himself.” Castiel tried to hide his grin, but he failed. Dean’s laugh died and their eyes locked and held. When the man’s tongue peeked out to lick his bottom lip, Castiel’s heartbeat quickened as he tracked the movement. His gaze drifted upward again and those beautiful green eyes seemed to twinkle.

“So, Cas, you got anything that would interest an engineer around here?”

“An engineer,” Castiel repeated softly, still in something of a trance. A lilting laugh came from the back room and broke through. “An engineer... yes, as a matter of fact.” He rose and motioned Dean to follow him. He normally wouldn’t leave a book that valuable alone with a client until the money changed hands, but he wasn’t thinking with his upper brain. “I’m not sure which type of engineer you are, but I have a lithograph dating back to the mid-eighteen hundreds of the mechanism that raised and lowered the Terre Haute Drawbridge in Indiana.”

“No shit. That’s awesome.”

Castiel pointed to a framed document on the west wall of his shop. Dean stepped up to it and studied it for a few moments. He smiled. “How much would something like this cost?”

“I could let this one go, with the specialty framing for three hundred.” The price tag was well over that, but he could lose his profit margin for a handsome man. An overly dramatic sigh came from the back room and he wanted Rowena to disappear.

“Three hundred, huh. It would look pretty cool in my office,” he said, his forefinger tapping his chin. It drew Castiel’s eye. There was a day or two of stubble on his face. With most men he dated, he liked the clean-shaven look, but he would love to feel the scratch on his...” Another tinkle of laughter made him growl.

“Down, tiger,” Dean whispered, his smile showing white, straight teeth. “She’s something else, man.”

“She is very beautiful,” Castiel admitted. He’d seen Dean’s appraising look. It was like the word ‘straight’ was flashing in neon.

“Yeah, not my type though.” He pointed to the lithograph. “I’ll take it.”

Castiel was left wondering what type Dean liked. The man in question had returned to the table. “Sammy, I have to get to my office. Some of us do work for a living.” Castiel carefully removed the frame from its hook and took it to the counter to wrap.

“Psst,” Castiel ignored Rowena’s call for attention. He wrapped the stiff brown paper around the frame and folded over the edges. Holding them together with one hand, he got his roll of masking tape and ripped off a piece with his teeth. “I’ve granted your wish, now you can let me go,” she whispered from behind him.

“I’m not holding you and I haven’t wished for anything,” he hissed back at her.

“But you did, deary. You wished a man like that would love you.” She laughed softly. “As wishes go, it was easy. You really didn’t even need me. The seed was already planted by fate. She’s such an attention whore.”

“Fate?”

“Huh?” Castiel was startled to find Dean standing across the counter from him. “What about fate? You believe in that, Cas?”

“I... er...” There it was again, that smile that made the blood rush to....”

“Nether regions,” Rowena said.

“Nether regions?” Dean looked perplexed. “What the hell?”

“Ignore her, please, Dean.” Castiel smiled weakly and patted the parcel. “Your lithograph is ready.”

Dean fished his wallet out of his hip pocket and slid a credit card toward him. Sam came up behind him, holding the archival box. “You can ring me up next, Castiel.”

Moments later, the two brothers held their packages and Castiel walked them to the door. This was it. Dean would walk out and he’d never see him again, but he had images to take to bed with him.

“Oh, Sweet Baby Jesus,” Rowena swept into the showroom. “Ask for his hand.”

“Whose hand,” Sam asked.

“His,” Rowena pointed to Dean. “This one will be marrying him before the year is out, but I don’t have time to wait for this long drawn out affair.” Mortified, Castiel turned to her and grabbed both of her velvet clad arms.

“Rowena, so help me God, I’m going to murder you.”

“Not something you should be saying in front of your fiancé there, Cas. Though Sam is a great attorney. Would you give him the family discount, Sammy?”

“Sure,” Sam answered like this type of thing was a common occurrence.

“Please forgive her, she’s crazy,” Castiel cried out, unwilling to face the two men. Rowena’s smile was like that of a cat having swallowed the family’s pet bird.

“Not that I believe in all that psychic crap, but I’d love to have dinner with you and discuss naming our kids,” Dean said, laughing softly.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said, finally turning. “I...”

Dean’s smile softened. “Cas, I mean it. If you’re game...”

“Really?”

“Oh, praise the goddesses.” She broke Castiel’s hold and stomped off to the back room.

“I’ll shoot you a text,” Dean said, holding up one of Castiel’s business cards. He watched the two men load their purchases in the trunk of a large, black car. An Impala. Cars weren’t on his list of interests, but he recognized a beloved object when he saw one. Dean winked at him through the window as he got behind the wheel. Then they were gone, driving down Royal Street. The shops were coming alive around him and he saw Meg strolling toward him, her bright tights and zebra print top clashing with the elegance of the antique district. _Meg_. Shit. He locked the door, buying some time.

He was out of breath from jumping over the steamer trunk that was on the maiden voyage of the Queen Mary. He skidded to a shop and whipped the curtains to the side. The store room was empty. He even peeked under his work table. No witch. The antique tea urn was gone, as were the tray, the creamer, and the sugar bowl. He sat down heavily in his chair. It must have been a dream.

 

**December, 2019**

 

“Cas?” Dean’s voice came from the showroom. Castiel smiled and put down the rag he was using to clean the anniversary clock he’d picked up at an estate sale in Baton Rouge.

“In here,” he called out.

His fiancé came through the curtain and bent down to kiss the top of his head. “Nice clock. Why are you still here?”

“It’s only...” He looked at the clock. “Eleven.”

“The clock is wrong, babe. It’s four.”

“Shit,” Castiel exclaimed and pushed his chair back. “I’m sorry, I... just...”

“Time slipped away,” Dean finished, an indulgent smile on his handsome face. He pulled Castiel’s tie and brought their mouths together for a kiss. When he leaned back, he said, “The rehearsal dinner starts in thirty minutes.”

Castiel looked down at his suit. It wasn’t what he’d planned to wear, but he didn’t have time to change now. “Meg promised to lock up and meet us there.”

“I know. Let’s go.” Dean took his hand and pulled him through the curtain. They both waved at Meg. She barely looked up from the magazine she was reading.

At Saint-Germain, Castiel and Dean walked through the wine bar and made their way to the courtyard where friends and family had begun to gather. Later, they were go into the private dining room and sit down to a menu planned especially for them.

Castiel stood by Sam’s girlfriend, Eileen, and watched as the two brothers listened to their godfather, Bobby, telling one of his long-winded stories. He sipped his wine and stared up at the late afternoon sky. It was already getting dark.

He heard a sound that fluttered by with the breeze. His eyes sharpened and he looked around. He only saw the faces of their closest friends and family. Then through the window leading into the bar, he saw her. The gown was different and her hair was piled on top of her head, but he would know her anywhere. She lifted her glass and he excused himself to rush toward her. When he flung open the door, several patrons turned around to stare. _She wasn’t there_. Had it been his imagination?

“Babe? Everything okay?” Dean was there, his hand on the small of his back and his pulse slowed. He smiled and nodded. He couldn’t find it in his heart to hate the witch. She’d pushed him in the right direction. He loved and was loved by Dean.

Outside once again, he held his glass aloft. “Rowena, good luck to you.” Again, the lilted tinkle of laughter drifted down around him. He was still smiling when his future husband took his hand.

“What’s got you looking so happy?”

“I’m marrying the most perfect man in the world tomorrow and he makes me so very happy.” Dean’s dimples deepened and he kissed Castiel’s knuckles.

“Yeah, I thought I was marrying the most perfect man in the world tomorrow. What a coincidence.”


End file.
